The Eighth Day (Jason Ford Series)

by Guy N Smith

  In most cases the foreskin is just stretched and cut off neatly. In Africa it is stretched over a bamboo tube and then cut off. This was the method used by the Ancient Romans when their soldiers were due long spells of desert duty in Africa, Egypt, etc., for reasons of hygiene.

  The subject both fascinated and excited her, now she trembled for a different reason.

  “Thank you so much,” she smiled at the librarian as she hurried past his desk.

  “Good luck with your project,” he called after her, watched her go and then returned to his reading.

  She had been his only visitor today.

  * * * *

  Alone in the flat, Kate hunted through the boxes in her studio section; pictures which she had bought cheap from Oxfam just for the frames, old brushes that might be resuscitated, small jars that had once contained fish and meat pastes, gherkins and olives. She used them as paint pots for watercolours.

  She began to scrabble feverishly through the boxes, looking for those jars that still had lids. She found some, soaked them in the sink until the labels peeled off. Then she dried the jars, found a pad of adhesive economy labels, cut them to size and pasted them on the clear glass.

  Ashes? Damn it, nobody had ashes in this age of push button heating, open fires were a thing of the past. No, it didn’t matter; a preservative would be better, something clear that did not hide the object in the jar from view. She had some white spirit for cleansing paintbrushes …

  She already had a hiding place in mind, a secret cache for the ‘trophies’, which she would collect. Above the cistern in the bathroom was a plywood boxed-in area that housed the header tank. In order to open up this crude enclosed cupboard one had to juggle with the front board until it came free of the groove. It was only intended for use by council plumbers in an emergency.

  Kate stood on a footstool, reached above her head. The board rattled to her touch, she had to juggle with it. Suddenly, it came free, slipped from her grasp and clattered on to the floor.

  The interior was thick with dust, there was a wide ledge in front of the plastic water tank. She grunted her satisfaction. That was ideal.

  She climbed down, went back through to the kitchen. Her hand shook as she began to pour white spirit into the small jars, filling them about two-thirds full. Then she screwed the lids on tightly, carried them one at a time up to the cupboard in the bathroom. A neat row, all with their blank labels facing outwards.

  They were ready. Just waiting.

  She replaced the board, checked that it had slotted in firmly. Makeshift, but all the better for that. Nobody would ever think of looking up there.

  It was then that she heard the sound of a key in the front door, the Yale lock clicking.

  Paul Roden had returned.

  He looked tired, the way he usually did after a day at the office typing up the sports features for Friday’s edition. Their eyes met, he dropped his gaze, said “hi!”

  Kate nodded. His return was an inconvenience; perhaps he had just come to collect his things.

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” he went over to the sink. “Right now I could murder a cup of tea. Shall I fetch a takeaway later?” Because I hope that everything’s all right between us now and we can carry on the way we used to before Sunday.

  Oh, fuck, that sounded all too familiar. Things will be fine from now on, we can pretend that the other night never happened. It would make things worse than before, both of them living a lie. She was just about to begin living the biggest lie of her life and she had no room for trivial bickerings.

  Kate wondered where he had stayed the last couple of nights. Probably with one of his friends. “We’ll see. Later.” She went back to her studio area, picked up a paintbrush, bent over a half-finished picture of the park lake and its resident ducks. “I’ve been struggling with this all day.” The Big Lie had begun. “It’s been one of those days when nothing went right.”

  “How are you feeling?” He filled the kettle, switched it on.

  “Okay.”

  An embarrassed silence followed. She heard the water begin to boil.

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “I see.” He poured boiling water into the teapot, left it to brew.

  “I’ve got to go out later,” that lie came easily, just spilled from her lips. “There’s an art society meeting tonight.” There was but she would not be going.

  “That’s all right, there’s a darts match on up at the White Horse.” Which was also true, he wasn’t in the team but he could go and watch.

  “That’s fine, then.”

  They sipped their tea in silence. She said that which had been nagging her from the moment when she had first heard his key in the lock. “I’ll make the camp bed up in here tonight. For me.”

  “There’s no need, Kate. I’ll stay with Matthew.” So her surmise had been correct. “If you want to.”

  He didn’t, but he would. “There’s things we have to talk about.”

  “Sure, but not now.” Because she had other things on her mind and a detailed analysis of their relationship would be a distraction. She could not afford to be distracted tonight.

  More than that, she knew that she was afraid of him staying here. Not of Paul but of that which he represented in his innocence. Sunday night had been so real; her father come to molest her as he always did at bedtime when she was a child; the masked rapist standing over her in the park; Paul, wearing just a T-shirt that did not hide anything as he prepared for bed.

  The soft skin, revolting yet beautiful, her pulses racing as she lusted for it, craving revenge for everything that had happened to her. One common denominator that blended the three into one.

  She was aware of the weight of the hobby knife in the pocket of her jeans, the way it seemed to throb against her thigh as if it was a living entity, a razor sharp predator hungering for its prey. Kate knew only too well what she would do if he shared her bed tonight.

  He had spared both of them by opting to go and stay with Matthew.

  7.

  Ricky Reed had been made redundant from his job at the builder’s yard the previous autumn. He did not mind at all because his unemployment benefit provided him with all his basic needs. The bonus was that he didn’t have to get up at 7.30 every morning; he could enjoy his own brand of a life of leisure.

  His physique was not suitable for the heavy work which had been expected of him. Two hundred four-by-four concrete slabs to be loaded on the delivery lorry and, instead of helping him, the driver went for a cup of tea. Or a bulk load of cement to be unloaded and stacked all on his own. Any dirty or heavy job then they fetched Ricky and left him to it. Because he didn’t argue, he didn’t say anything much at all, and nobody heeded the mutterings that came from behind his unsightly, protruding teeth.

  But there was a limit to what a man could put up with. The only reason that Ricky had not handed in his notice was because he would not have been able to claim unemployment benefit. And finding another job would be almost impossible. The economic recession solved his problems, now he had enough money to live on and ample free time.

  At 30, Ricky was still single. His appearance did not endear him to the opposite sex. If he had been able to afford it he would have had his teeth fixed but the NHS did not finance fads. Girls were not easy to come by, if he wanted one then he had to go downtown and pay for one. Which he did from time to time, his Christmas bonus, courtesy of the DHSS had been squandered in ten minutes of ecstasy in a dark alley. It had been worth it, though.

  He seemed oblivious of the sour body odours which emanated from his sparse frame. And if on the odd occasion he did notice an underarm smell, then wasn’t that how men were supposed to smell, sweaty and macho? Big Ray at the builders’ always stank and he had a stunner of a girlfriend. Ricky never thought that Ray might shower and use deodorants when he got home from work.

  Yet Ricky wasn’t unhappy with his lonesome lot. For one so frail, his sexual appet
ite was insatiable.

  Satisfaction, though, was achieved by his solo efforts. Back in his council maisonette he had a veritable library of pornographic magazines which he had purchased from the sex shop in town, Scandinavian publications that left nothing to the imagination and cost a minimum of a fiver each. And those that didn’t turn him on he could trade in for half price against a new one.

  He was a regular customer at the sex shop. As well as erotic reading material, Ricky bought expensive aids which claimed to delight the lonely and were indistinguishable from the real thing. Provided you switched off the light. Rubber facsimiles of exciting parts of the female anatomy, if you had £150 to spare you could buy an entire inflatable bed partner. Currently he was saving up for one; if he didn’t go downtown for a whole year he would have enough money with which to buy one. The battery-operated stimulators on their own didn’t do a lot for him.

  Nevertheless, every so often the overwhelming desire for the real thing got the better of him. A guy had to treat himself every now and then, didn’t he.

  You could always find what you needed down by the bus station at the bottom of Barker Street. But you got what you paid for; Loony Liz up an alleyway often resulted in an embarrassed visit to the doctor’s surgery. Doctor Booth was not sympathetic towards the victims of self-inflicted illnesses or diseases. He even cursed you in his own inimitable way because you smoked if you went to him with bronchitis. Venereal disease was an avoidable condition, too. It made unnecessary work for the doctor and cost the health service money.

  A few years ago there had been an epidemic of VD in this area of the city. Ricky had been working at the clothing factory at the time and had been sacked when he was caught with a gawky teenage girl in the storeroom. Even though it was the dead of winter they were both naked. The foreman had fired them on the spot.

  A couple of weeks later an irate Doctor Booth had stormed into the factory, grabbed the tannoy microphone and ordered any woman who had been with Ricky Reed in the last few months to report to surgery at three o’clock. Four had turned up and all were in need of treatment.

  The girls in the stitching room were a basic, down-to-earth breed. It was only human nature to screw, so they fucked at every opportunity with anybody who happened to be willing. Ricky smiled nostalgically to himself, that had been the golden era of his life. You got what you wanted without having to pay for it and without any emotional involvement. He wasn’t the settling down kind.

  After he was fired, Barker Street was the only alternative. The only female employed at the building yard was Mrs Westbury in the office. She wouldn’t stand for any nonsense. Likewise, no man, apart from her long-suffering husband, would want any nonsense with her. And maybe even he didn’t get any.

  There were days when Ricky woke up with the urge. Around midday, usually. Which meant that he often didn’t get up until two or after, or maybe then he was so exhausted after his repertoire of methods of satisfaction that he went back to sleep. On one occasion he had slept right through to the following day.

  But today he wasn’t getting anywhere. The floor was littered with a variety of aids which he had cast aside in disgust. And as an added insult the batteries in the vibrator had run down. He settled for the oft-tried and best-proven method but all he achieved was an aching wrist. That was when he knew that tonight he had to go downtown.

  He lay there, mentally totted up the money in the Rubber Doll Fund in the Quality Street tin in the wardrobe. £49.50. Another £100.50 to go. Fuck it! But he didn’t need to borrow from his worthy cause, his lips stretched back from his buckteeth, all it meant was that he wouldn’t be able to put a couple of quid in at the end of the week. He could always cut down on his fags … No, there was no need for that, he’d manage.

  He swung his thin legs off the bed, couldn’t quite touch the floor until he shifted forward. God, he couldn’t wait! You’ll have to, it’s only three-thirty in the afternoon and the slags don’t usually get down there till eight at the earliest. He’d have to make do with Liz, he couldn’t afford any of the others. And if he got a dose of the clap, then this time he’d go to Doctor Whittaker. Whittaker was a nice guy, he didn’t lecture you. So folks said.

  Ricky resisted the temptation to have one more session, his wrist ached too much, and anyway, he didn’t want to risk spoiling his later pleasures. He dressed in his old working jeans and a holed sweater, went downstairs and made a cup of tea. He didn’t bother about food, he never felt hungry when sex was on the menu.

  Funny creatures, women, he tried to purse his lips over his teeth. They got the idea they were doing you a favour by letting you shag them when they enjoyed it as much as you did. They made one helluva noise, clutched you and gouged you with their fingernails if you did it right, pleaded with you to shaft them even harder. But they wanted something in return. It ought to be the other way round, he laughed aloud, a croaky rasping sound, they should pay you! That way he’d soon be rich and he wouldn’t need to spend his savings on a latex woman with stranded nylon hair. Still, he sighed regretfully, that was just wishful thinking.

  * * * *

  He had never known Barker Street so quiet, it was spooky. There was usually a heavily made-up tart standing in the doorway of the closed down off-licence. She was too pricey even if she had been there, she’d put her fee up to twenty-five quid. Sod her.

  Liz often hung around the sleazy snack bar which the health authorities had closed down and which had now re-opened. She certainly wasn’t here tonight, Ricky stared in through the grimy windows with its misspelt handwritten menu sellotaped on the glass. Fat Jack, the proprietor, had the place all to himself, sitting on a chair marking off tomorrow’s runners in the evening paper. The floor was filthy and littered, in view of his recent fine he’d maybe sweep it before he closed. Dirty crockery on the unwiped tables was evidence of a moderate daytime trade. Mostly truckers looking for prostitutes.

  Jack looked up, scowled. I’m getting ready to close so don’t come in here ordering pie and fucking chips. Ricky moved on.

  He heard a car coming, dodged into a doorway, pressed himself back into the shadows. Headlights lit up the opposite brickwork. The vehicle was travelling slowly, a Vauxhall Astra. It passed him, he saw the silhouettes of two men in the front seats, either kerb-crawlers or undercover cops. Whichever, it was best that they did not see him. The car turned left into Dam Street.

  He’d read in the Herald about the police purge on kerb-crawlers and prostitutes. But there was no law against a bloke on foot picking up a bird, it happened every night in bars and clubs. Like blind dates. And if she charged you, who was to know.

  Where the fuck was Loony Liz? Maybe she was ill or else this was her night off. If you worked full-time then you had to have a rest from lying on your back or else propping up an alley wall. Come to think of it, where were all the other slags? Scared, perhaps because one of them had got topped. That was weeks ago, they couldn’t afford to shy off for this long. Or frightened of the police. No, they paid their fines and went straight back out on the job. More likely they were working from home, stuck their adverts in the telephone kiosks and on the wall by the railway station.

  Ricky felt in his pocket, checked if he’d got any change to make a phone call. And that was when the girl spoke to him out of the darkened doorway.

  “Hi, there.”

  He jumped, felt his heart miss a beat and then speed up. “Jeez, you frit me, sweetheart!”

  “Sorry.” He couldn’t see her properly, she was hugging the shadows, just an outline against the blackness behind her. A big girl, wearing dark jeans and a jumper to match, her hair tied up at the back. “You can’t exactly stand out on the pavements these nights, the cops are all over the place. Don’t stand out there, come on in.”

  She smelled heavily of perfume, it made him feel heady. More than likely she was one of the upper range, looking for a BMW or Mercedes that would have a luxurious back seat to lie on. The kind who offered massage and knew that there was onl
y one place where their customer would want to be rubbed.

  “How much?” There was no point in beating about the bush, wasting both their time.

  “Twenty quid. You can pay me afterwards and if you’re not satisfied I’ll waive the charge.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “I’m good,” she didn’t say it like it was a boast, just a plain statement of fact. “You’ll be knackered when I’ve finished with you. You’ll crawl home and the cops will pick you up for being drunk in a public place!” Her tinkling laugh echoed in the empty doorway.

  “I’m on.” Too right, he was, he’d been like that all day. He laughed at his own joke as well as hers.

  “We can’t do it here,” she took his hand, squeezed it. “We don’t want a rushed stand-up job, do we?”

  “Where then?”

  “There’s a demolition site just off the street parallel to this one. Redevelopment, half the houses are pulled down, the others just boarded up. There’s one with an unlocked door, got an old couch left in the front room. As snug as you’ll get anywhere off Barker Street.”

  He let her lead the way. It was as if she was keeping her face turned away from his the whole time. Just a big shapely body; like the old saying, you didn’t look at the mantelpiece when you poked the fire.

  The terrain was rubble strewn, in the glow from the streetlamps beyond she threaded her way safely across the demolition site, a shambles that had once been neat working class terraced houses thirty years ago. Run down, now pulled down. They would replace it with modern brick boxes that wouldn’t last a quarter of the time as their predecessors.

  “This is the one.”

  Ricky heard a door scraping back, saw her stoop to enter. The interior smelled damp and musty. “We need a torch.”

  Even as he spoke, a beam of light shot from her outstretched hand, played round the dilapidated room; remnants of peeling wallpaper, a chipped, stone quarried floor. And just one item of furniture, the sofa of which she had spoken, the seat sagging over the broken springs.